Where Have You Gone?

Recently I was passing by the old Little League field where I used to play. There is something heartbreaking about staring at a childhood memory. Maybe it is the innocence in which I used to play baseball or all sports for that matter. Maybe it was my head grabbing at memories of when I felt like a “ball player.” I saw myself twenty years ago, standing in ripped, orange stained baseball pants with my hand-me-down glove and cleats. My heart ached for second and I could feel my eyes fill with tears. Trips down “memory lane” are often emotional, but this was different. The emotions were different because baseball is trivial in the grand scheme of things. It means very little to most, but everything to some. I guess I fall in the category of “some.” As I drove past the field and further down the road, I remembered a few things about baseball and how it lit a fire in my belly. I looked at baseball cards every night and I could swear that I was looking at “gods.” These were men blessed with powers that were beyond me. I wondered often if guys like Gary Templeton, Ozzie Smith, George Brett, and Mike Schmidt ever played "wall ball" to practice fielding or did they keep stats in their Wiffle Ball leagues? Oh the memories flooded me and I immediately had thoughts of my father standing behind the screen, watching me pitch. I was a fat twelve year old who was deadly with his fastball and scarily accurate with a four-fingered change-up. My father stood proudly in his beat up work uniform every time I took the mound. The game was fun, I knew my ERA and he’d count strikeouts. As much as it is a team game, it was usually just my dad and I when I pitched. We made side bets all the time. I once made the “outlandish” prediction that I would strikeout 15 batters. He smiled at me and told me I could have a dollar for every batter over ten. I struck-out 16 and he gave me 16 ones. I was rich that day, but not because of money.
Baseball is about memories. It is about purity and integrity, sons and fathers, and all the good that exist in competition. The youth of today are being robbed of these experiences as the greatest game ever invented collapses upon itself due to its own ignorance. Baseball’s purity is threatened at every turn as parents run their precious superstars off to hitting, pitching and fielding clinics. The days of the sandlot are over and “wall ball” has become an archaic form of practice. The simplicity of the game has been compromised by parents who want to live vicariously through their children. Baseball has become about money at the most basic level. Little League has become a caricature of itself and has lost its child-like innocence.
There is a “fix” for the problem and baseball now relies on a generation of thirty-somethings to repair its damaged image. It is our responsibility to reflect on our memories and share them with our sons, daughters, and anyone who will share in our appreciation for the game. Baseball in all of its glory is a beautiful distraction from our everyday lives. The “diamond” can be the best therapy for a “rough day” and it can be a great game once more if we give back all that has been given.

Today’s Roar-Movies that encapsulate the meaning of childhood and baseball

The Sandlot
Benny “the Jett” Rodriguez and his gang of misfits just play ball for the sake of playing ball. I love that they beat the snot out of the town’s organized sports club. These kids play just to play. This movie does a fine job of capturing the history of the game as well as reminding us of those childhood “pickles” we use tot get ourselves into on a weekly basis. Never play with an autographed ball signed by Babe Ruth!

The Bad News Bears
I always saw this movie has a slight towards organized sports. It is still refreshing to watch this movie because the parents are still representative of today’s Little League adults. The little triumphs that each player experiences throughout this movie are priceless. This movie may be one of the great baseball movies. If you are ever a coach always look for the kid riding his moped. He may be able to hit homeruns for you.